State of Mind
_ Author's Note : This is my first story that I'm posting online. I wrote this 6 months ago, and it's a bit long at 6,600 words. Sorry for the strange formatting, but it looks like the submission box here doesn't like to use the appropriate spacing set-up, nor indenting. Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, if any comments at all._
State of Mind
Chris walks along a calm downtown city street, squinting at an illegible scrawl on a small piece of square paper gripped tightly in his hand. He adjusts his glasses on his face again and again, brushing his long bangs out of his eyes trying to make out exactly, or at least generally, what the scribble reads. He knows it's some antidepressant prescribed by his psychiatrist just a few minutes prior, but what kind he can't tell.
A bell dings as he makes his way into the local drug store, and he shuffles through the aisles towards the pharmacy counter. An older woman greets him at the desk as he casually hands her the slip of paper he'd been carrying from the clinic. Ah, she exclaims, I'll be back in just a few minutes with your pills. Chris nods, amazed at how well pharmacists can read chicken scratch and turns to lean against a remote part of the counter, away from the queue and, more importantly, away from the other people in the store. He most definitely would not call himself a 'people person' by any means, mostly self-defining himself as a social outcast since high school. To make things even harder, he has no friends; this country is foreign to him, having emigrated from Britain to the United States, where he currently studies in Michigan.
His gaze finds its way to a mirror positioned on the end of a rack against an aisle across from him, showing a slim, pale figure staring back at him. He shyly turns his head away, unsatisfied in his appearance. He doesn't find one thing about himself attractive; not his pointed nose, not his dirty, messy blonde hair, not his dark, depressing brown eyes, or his overall untidy complexion. He stares down at his old and worn shoes and sweatshirt bearing the title Michigan State. He knows he looks grungy and uninviting, but he's not one to be conscious of fashion sense; he's past caring about other's opinions of himself.
He forces himself to look up again, yet this time his gaze is caught somewhere else, caught on soft, flowing hair of a girl surveying the vast amounts of facial products on several shelves, not several meters from where he stands. Even though he can only just catch a glimpse of her profile, he recognizes her to be a freshman (like himself) that is anonymous to him, although she has a room just a few doors down from his own in the co-ed residence on campus.
"She has pretty hair," he hears a familiar voice say. Chris hums in agreement. The speaker is his friend, Luke, who is no more than a figment of imagination; with a lack of physical friends, Chris had felt he had no choice but to make one of his own, one that wouldn't judge him with prejudice as others seemed to do on a daily basis. Having a friend such as Luke may seem a bit childish, but the fact that Luke is around whenever needed always assuaged Chris.
Chris continues to hold his gaze at the girl, admiring what Luke had pointed out. Her hair is medium length and not quite bleach blonde, brushing her shoulders in a textured cut and style. He analyzes the nuances, the subtleties of her character: a uniform hair colourshows that she is genuine, yet a double piercing on her upper ear shows an aberrant side. She is definitely up to date on the current fashions, with a pretty plaid grey scarf showing above the collar of her black buttoned renaissance-style coat.
The girl suddenly glances in Chris's direction, her eyes meeting his. She gives a quick nod along with a small smile to him, the way acquaintances do as they acknowledge each other's company. Chris blatantly jerks his head away from her, hoping she didn't notice that he was staring at her the whole time.
"I think she noticed..." Luke says abashedly.
"You're not helping," Chris replies quietly, a bit annoyed. Smooth, Chris, he thinks to himself. Fucking smooth as sandpaper.
Chris waits in the store just a few short minutes before he can pick up his prescription, slip it in his coat and exit in the direction of his campus.
Back in his dorm, Chris throws his little blue stress ball up and down, up and down, catching it and throwing it up again while lying on his back atop his bed. He is doing this idly while his mind was occupied on his trip to the pharmacy, more specifically on the girl at the pharmacy. His mind hasn't been able to shake this woman from its thoughts ever since the event occurred. Chris finds this strange, as he mostly considers himself asexual, but there is something about this girl that just draws him in. He remembers the quick look he got at her full complexion when she looked at him; a cute button nose with a few freckles under her brilliant hazel eyes, with eyebrows curved slightly so it looks like she is constantly sincere. To Chris she is adorable, or as close enough to it as anyone could get in his eyes.
He feels a sick, sinking feeling in his heart, no doubt deriving from his current thoughts. Knowing all too well what this emotion is, Chris reaches for his new bottle of antidepressants. He can hear the pills hitting its plastic container as he brings the bottle up to his face, reading the prescription's various warnings: _Side effects may include (but are not limited to) nausea, headache, stomach ache, thirst or suicidal thoughts. Do not exceed more than two (2) pills a day. If you have thoughts of suicide after taking this medication, please contact your doctor immediately. Do not mix this medication with alcohol or--_yadda yadda yadda, Chris thinks mockingly. He pops off the lid with his experienced thumb and swallows two pills dry. Chris knows he usually shouldn't be taking two pills this close together in the day, but the sun is setting and he feels he needs this dose to sleep through the coming night.
Chris lets his head sink into his pillow, the soft fabric massaging his head as he relaxes and takes a deep breath. His thoughts focus around that girl, how she is able to enthrall him while no other girl could do the same before. Yet she seems to be so high above him on the social ladder, so out of his league; he can never attain that same social status. How useless he feels down at the bottom, where nobody cares about his mere existence. Maybe he should just end it all; his thoughts drift to a pocketknife he has in his desk drawer...
These must be the suicidal thoughts the label warned about, Chris thinks. But regardless, they seem like sober thoughts. He reaches for his pills again, thinking another pill would reverse the effects of the last two. He swallows another drug and waits.
The world gradually becomes darker around him, everything becoming much harsher; edges are sharper, noises are louder, and everything is much more intimidating and unwelcoming. He becomes frantic, and swallows yet another pill, hoping this will cure whatever effects the previous pills had caused, or dilute the effects with more drugs. His thoughts are not his own any more, bouncing from place to place, from idea to idea without hesitating to contemplate his situation. Time is passing, but in what quantity it travels by is unrecognizable. Chris squeezes his eyes shut and feels his brain swirling and shifting in his head. It's uncomfortable, how it's pressed up against his skull and dancing about as if it weren't meant to be in his body. It's banging, crying, screaming and bucking and...tranquil.
Chris slowly opens his eyes again, staring down at his hands that he holds in front of his chest; his palms appear to glow with a grey tone, and everything around it is black or white. He looks around, finding that everything seems to be contrasting, opposite in colourof what it is normally supposed to be, as if he is in a negative of a strip of film.
This doesn't make sense, Chris thinks. His mind is calm again, and he can focus on the situation in front of him: what the hell is going on? Behind Chris a voice, one that is a bit higher pitched yet smooth and pronounced, pipes up.
"Yes, this does seem a bit strange, don't you think?" Chris whirls around to see the source of this noise, but in turning around he loses coordination and tumbles off his bed, hitting his back and head on the floor. Dazed, he looks up and stares into the deep blue eyes of the unknown speaker.
Some creature, uniform light blue in colour with two small dark blue horns on the top of its head, sitting on both its knees on Chris's pillow, stares back at him with a smirk on its face. It looks quite human, having anthropomorphic features, but Chris knows it obviously can't be one; it looks a lot more like a half-devil that would be referenced in a text of some sort, like a comic book, with a character like Nightcrawler. The creature doesn't look all that intimidating, he notes, but rather childish.
Chris's head is jumbling with questions: what is this monster doing here, what business does it have with me? His eyes focus on the creature again, who now sports what Chris could best describe as an exorbitant frown. He also wonders if it is physically possible to bend your mouth in the perfect upside-down 'U' shape that that devil thing seems to be able to do.
"You mean..." the creature starts, in a shaky voice, "you don't know who I am?"
Chris stares at it blankly, while blinking a few times to show that he has no clue what this creature means. Its bottom lip begins to quiver, and its eyes water. Chris also notes that this thing likes to be melodramatic.
The demon stares at Chris with deep sorrow, as if it is a child whose mother had left them in an alleyway. Why so distraught? It knows Chris, yet Chris doesn't have any idea who it could be. Unless--no. It can't be.
"Luke?" Chris manages to articulate.
There was a hesitant pause. The creature's eyes dart away for a half of a second, so quickly that Chris hardly notices it, then back at Chris again. The blue creature smiles gleefully and gives an exaggerated nod.
"Howdy."
Luke winks at Chris, who is currently incredulous. Could this really be his friend that he thought was just a pathetic excuse for company until this moment? He has his doubts; it is just too good to be true. He never pictured his friend to be a blue...thing. Chris needs proof that this is in fact his friend with whom he shares his deepest secrets; maybe he'll ask something that only Luke would know, something like--
"You still enjoy watching 'Thomas the Tank Engine', if I am not mistaken?" Luke giggles teasingly, the way a preschooler would at the mention of the word 'toilet'.
Chris blushes deeply, and scrambles to try to say something to redeem himself, but can think of nothing. How could he possibly come back from an accusation like that? The worst part of it is that it was true. If anyone were to know of this Tank-Engine-watching, it would have to be Luke. But what strikes Chris as odd is that Luke seems to finish Chris's own sentences, as if Luke is able to--
"Read your mind?" Luke chirps with a sly face. Chris gawks in disbelief.
"Don't be so amazed." Luke says casually as he hops from the bed towards the lone window in the dorm. He makes his way to the window while miming that he is on a tightrope, wobbling and stepping one foot in front of the other, while balancing himself with his two arms spread wide. Chris observes that Luke also has small wings on his back that are similar to those of a bat, still in the uniform vibrant blue that matched the rest of his body. Along with the wings, a tail with a triangular tip, like a spear, waves back and forth awkwardly, keeping balance with his arms.
"It's only logical that I can read your mind," Luke continues, "after all, I am a part of it."
Chris takes this in for a moment, considering how to respond. Luke leans on the windowsill, giving a sideways glance at Chris, seeing how he will react to this information. Chris takes a seat on the edge of the bed, previously occupied by Luke, to mull over this information. The bed feels slightly warm. Chris stares down at the floor, thinking.
"So you're telling me this isn't real?"
"I never said that," Luke replies. "Besides, isn't reality only what the brain perceives to be real?"
Chris looks up at Luke, who is staring back at him with a neutral expression on his face.
"Consider this," Luke states as he holds up his left hand with his index finger and thumb pinched together, still leaning on the windowsill. He turns his head away from Chris nonchalantly, looking out at the world below this 6th storeydorm. Chris fixes his eyes on Luke's action, waiting to see the point of this demonstration. After a few seconds a faint and swirling mist appears around Luke's blue fingers, coming together to form some sort of structure. Chris can begin to make it out; it's a square, with some design on it, though Chris is having a hard time making out what it is as he is not used to the inverted colours that have taken shape around him, including whatever this design is supposed to be.
Once the square is fully formed, Chris figures it's a photo of a girl. She seems familiar, but the awkward colours make it next to impossible for him to recognize who the female is.
"This is who you're drooling over," Luke chuckles, looking back at Chris, "Charlotte. Her name is Charlotte."
Chris continues to stare at the photo, questioning the validity of what is held in front of him. If this were real, how could that portrait of Charlotte actually exist? Moments ago, it was merely swirling dust in the air, and now--
"Don't think it exists?" Luke interrupts Chris's thoughts, and extends his arm further. "Take it. I assure you it's real."
Chris reluctantly reaches for the photo. To his surprise he is able to pluck it from between Luke's fingers. He rubs the glossy paper with his thumb; it has subsistence.
"You can keep that, if you'd like." Luke winks, and flicks his tail across Chris's hand. It's surprisingly warm, and it too is just as real as the photo.
Luke's expression suddenly turns frantic and he whips his wrist up to his face, as if he is checking a watch, but he is wearing nothing on his arm.
"Augh! I'm late!" Luke cries out to nobody in particular. He takes a step back from Chris. "It's been fun talking with you, but I gotta run!"
Luke holds up an arm, with his palm adjacent to Chris's face.
"You've got a busy day tomorrow, you know. If you want to reach me again, you know what to do." Luke gives a devious smile. He lowers his arm, and Chris is suddenly overwhelmed with weakness, an exhaustion that he can't control.
"Now sleep." Luke walks past Chris towards the doorway. Chris turns to look at him, but he can barely keep his eyes open. He sees Luke's tail swish back and forth as his blurred vision fades into darkness.
Chris awakes with a start in his bed, the blankets in disarray. He sits up, still fully clothed from the night before. His nerves feel like they are twisted in knots, trying to recall the events of last night. He must have had a really bad dream. Yes, that's what he would call it: a bad dream. It was far too numinous to be anything but.
Swinging his legs over his mattress, Chris hears a plastic clinking noise coming from underneath the folds of his blanket. He picks up the plastic cylinder that's wrapped in the fabric and tosses it on the floor; he won't be touching those for a while.
Chris notices something else in his blanket that makes his curiosity spike. A folded white piece of paper rests comfortably on the soft beige fabric beside where the pills were resting just a few seconds before. Chris picks it up and unfolds it.
Charlotte stares back at him from the paper; it's the photo that he thought he had imagined in his dream, although Chris isn't sure it was a dream anymore. He slides out of bed subconsciously, still staring at the picture. He places it on his desk cautiously, as if it is a piece of evidence for later examination, and continues to get ready for class.
Throughout the next half hour, Chris can't get the events from last night out of his head; they just seem too unrealistic for it to be true. He has the photo, isn't that proof enough? How else could he have gotten it? He didn't even know the girl's name was Charlotte before last night. That is, if Luke was correct.
Chris fumbles with his clothing, sloppily throwing on a pair of jeans and a sweater; he feels uncoordinated today, which isn't usually a prominent problem for him. He quickly grabs his school supplies, shoving them hastily into his messenger bag and slinging it over his shoulder before he steps out of his dorm room and starts walking down the hall towards the stairway.
One thing has been bugging Chris since last night: what did Luke mean when he said 'You have a busy day tomorrow'? Chris thinks about the possibilities of what he could be trying to hint at. Did he have something planned for Chris, or was it just a casual release of conversation?
He feels a slight resistance and then a sharp yelp, followed by a warm sensation running from his wrist to the tips of his fingers. He looks down at his left hand to see what the sensation is; a brown liquid is stained on the cuff of his sweater. Chris smells coffee in the air. He spins around to find Charlotte, quite disgruntled, staring back at him with her jaw gaping in shock. Her hoodie and sweatpants are splashed with the same brown liquid that is currently dripping from his fingers.
After taking half a second for his mind to register what had just happened, Chris scrambles to apologize.
"I...I..." he stumbles, trying to find a suitable way to apologize, "I'm so sorry--I was distracted and I wasn't looking where I was going and it's totally my fault that I did that and now the coffee is all over you and--"
"It's okay," Charlotte interrupts in a casual monotone voice, as if to state that she is just being polite and everything is in fact not okay.
Chris is in a panic, trying to recover from his costly ignorance of his surroundings. His mind shifts to romantic comedies where problems like this occur all the time; he would just mimic some lines of dialogue and actions and everything should turn out fine. At least, it worked well in movies.
"Can, uhm...I...pay for the dry-cleaning on that shirt for you?" Chris manages to enunciate. The jaw-dropped look on Charlotte's face straightens out a little. To show that he is genuinely apologetic, he throws in another offer: "Maybe I can buy you a new coffee too?"
Charlotte smiles.
"You know," she starts, "most douche-bag preps in this place would just laugh and walk away."
Chris finds his cheeks growing warm, flattered by Charlotte's kind words.
"I'll be right out once I change my clothes."
Chris feels ashamed that the best recovery he could come up with came from lines of a romantic comedy.
Chris watches the clothes dry in front of him, swirling and tumbling around, confined in their metal cylinder. His eyes follow the clothes in a circle, making him slightly dizzy. He is reminded of last night.
"You're not very talkative, you know."
Charlotte's comment makes Chris feel insecure; he thought they had already talked about so much, now that they are sitting on a bench waiting for Charlotte's clothes to dry, sipping their coffees that Chris purchased from a café nearby. They had already introduced themselves (she was in fact Charlotte), talked about various details of their day to day lives and discussed other small talk subjects. Charlotte also made a quip about his accent, to which Chris replied with his whole background and memories from the U.K., and he was afraid that he may have bored her.
He can't think of anything more to say, so he holds his silence. Charlotte thinks of a question.
"So are you skipping a class right now?" she giggles, as if she were a school girl discussing a rebellious topic. Chris runs through his timetable in his mind.
"I think I'm supposed to be in Special Relativity."
"Physics? Oh wow, that must be really hard!" Charlotte looks impressed, but Chris keeps his comments in his mind; he thought physics was a breeze. People have told him he has just the mind for math. Chris counters with the same question Charlotte had asked, and is told she does not have a class at this time but was leaving her dorm to go grocery shopping.
A bell sounds on the drying machine, signaling the end of its cycle and their conversation.
Outside, Charlotte folds her clean clothes over her arm.
"Thank you very much," she says while motioning to her washed clothes. Chris nods his head slightly and mumbles something about how it was no problem.
"If you want, I can pay you back with another coffee some time?" Charlotte grins contently, almost playfully. Chris blushes again; this is the first time he's ever been asked on a date, let alone to accompany a girl anywhere.
"But it was my mistake, I was just correcting what I-" Chris is interrupted.
"Noon, tomorrow?" Charlotte places her hand on Chris's shoulder; he's paralyzed by her touch, but manages to reward her with a small smile.
With the pressure of an upcoming date rattling through his mind, Chris decides to recede to his paranormal state, in the company of Luke. A familiar and comforting glow surrounds his grey hands and arms as he stares at them from his prone position on his bed, facing the ceiling.
"You weren't there today," Chris remarks to Luke, who is sitting atop the desk swinging his legs idly, "when I was with Charlotte." This had made Chris feel uneasy and handicapped, as if he were missing a limb. Luke replies quickly.
"Well, I thought that we could do all the talking we'd ever want at times like these!" Luke looks a bit apologetic, but to Chris this seems like legitimate reasoning. "Besides, it's better to talk in person, no?" Chris ignores this.
"Do you think I acted strangely today?" Chris asks, although he sees the irony in this question; what he is doing right now, talking to someone who may or may not exist, is obviously quite strange.
"Nah, you were fine," Luke reassures him. Chris is unconvinced, and a frown forms on his lips. His thoughts shift back to his date tomorrow; he wonders what he should wear.
"Well let's see what you've got!" Luke exclaims excitedly, hopping off the desk and opening the dresser, sorting through the clothes. Chris forgot he needn't say anything with Luke; that is something he doesn't think he can get used to.
Luke is still sorting through Chris's clothes, trying to match shirts with potential pairs of pants. Chris watches Luke, and is amused at how worked up he is over such a small matter.
"Hey!'' Luke glares back at Chris, pretending to look insulted, "'This isn't a small detail, you need to make a good impression!''
Yep, there's no way he can get used to this.
Luke chooses a set of pants and shirt and folds them neatly together, placing them at the foot of Chris's bed.
"Thanks,'' Chris mumbles, feeling a bit tired and relaxing against his pillow. He catches a quick glimpse of his clock; it's 6:11. Well that doesn't make sense, Chris thinks. It couldn't be 6:11, it's pitch black outside (or white, in this reversed state of being) and he had eaten his dinner a few hours ago at 6:30. Strange, he murmurs to himself.
Another quick glance finds Luke, who is checking his imaginary watch again, looking worried. It must be time for him to go.
"That's right," Luke confirms, "time for me to go."
He walks up to the edge of the bed, where Chris is laying. Luke holds his palm open, a foot from Chris's face. He did this last time, what was this for?
"Enjoy your time tomorrow, I guarantee it'll be exciting!" Luke gives a quick flick of his tail. Chris looks up at him; he has an expression that looks like he is suggesting something, with one eyebrow up and a half-smile, but is too tired to care what that face might mean. Luke glides his hand slowly down towards Chris's neck, his eyelids following the hand; for some reason Chris feels exhaustion wash over him. He hears Luke say something along the lines of See you tomorrow! as the world drifts into a darkened silence.
Chris awakes to find the same folded clothes at the foot of his bed; it's a nice long sleeve rugby shirt, gray and red striped with some kind of coat of arms that hung like a badge on the left breast. This shirt looks very nice, and it's something Chris didn't even think he had. The shirt is matched with his best pair of dark blue jeans.
Chris catches a quick look at his clock; it still reads 6:11. It must be broken, Chris thinks, not bothering to fix it.
Upon entering the bathroom, he finds a comb sitting beside the tap, set in such a perfect position it's as if somebody had placed it there with intent for it to be used. A note was attached: ":)". It's a smiley face. Chris wonders if this was a hint from Luke; he himself seldom uses a comb, so maybe for this next meeting with Charlotte, he'll give it a shot. After showering and changing into his recommended attire, he gives the comb a try, managing to shift his hair into a shape of which he feels content.
He steps back from the mirror to get a full view of himself. A satisfied and content emotion washes over him. Luke would be proud, he thinks.
Strolling briskly down a main street, he glances at the shops around him, looking for the café where they are to meet. It's a nice day outside, even though the sun is not shining; it was cool enough that you could wear a sweater comfortably, with a generous breeze rustling the tiny leaves on the few blooming branches of the trees downtown.
A restaurant, packed with customers (mostly students) from the lunch rush, has begun to seat people on their tables outside on the patio, overlapping part of the sidewalk. As he walks past, he sees some couples enjoying a nice meal together, with the girls laughing in their cute, shy way, or the guys taking the hand of the girl affectionately, as if to say "I like you."
Chris feels an unsure excitement swell inside him; hopefully soon he'd get to hold Charlotte's hand like that. He looks down at his hand, imagining what it would feel like to have a hand to hold, a soft, rosy gesture of affection. Not paying attention, Chris clips a light pole with his left shoulder, and staggers back onto the sidewalk. Feeling stupid, he shoves his hands into his pockets and continues on his way.
Approaching the familiar café, he sees Charlotte waiting at the window, having saved a two-seated table right next to it. She waves, seeing Chris approaching. He goes to wave back, but his hand somehow gets caught in his pocket. After making a fool of himself, he frees his hand and waves back, only to see Charlotte laughing at him. Chris's spirits sink.
He can still hear her giggles as he sits on the chair across from her, and laughs along with her awkwardly.
She already has his coffee waiting for him.
The small place is also filled with customers, talking and laughing loudly over one another, and Chris needs to strain his ears to hear Charlotte over all the noise.
"Want to go for a walk? Get out of this place?" Charlotte suggests. Chris immediately agrees, and they soon find themselves on a bench in a nearby park, overlooking a large field of grass, spotted with the occasional bush or tree trunk. It has a serene tranquility to it; a surprisingly few amount of people were in the park. They begin talking about silly, pointless things, like who their favourite actor is, or what kind of hobbies they have, et cetera. It feels like they are talking for hours, their coffees long since finished, and Chris finally decides to look down at his watch: 6:11. Chris is taken back, as he begins to think that this must be more than a coincidence. Charlotte sees this confusion on his face and asks what is troubling him, but Chris excuses it as nothing. He asks if she has the time.
"Don't you have a watch?" she responds, pointing to Chris's wrist.
"Yeah," Chris replies, feeling a bit stupid, "but it's...I think it's broken." He taps the glass of the watch just to be sure, but the hands do not move.
"Wow, we've been talking for two hours now," Charlotte informs him after checking her cellphone. It's a little past two o'clock. Chris feels a sort of dread wash over him.
"I'm really sorry," he says apologetically, "I've got class in a few minutes. I have to go." Charlotte acknowledges this information with a 'hm', sounding a bit disappointed. Chris notices the discontent in her voice and quickly tries to think of something to say during this long pause.
"I really enjoyed this, thank you," Chris says sincerely, yet again lines from a romantic comedy. It worked well the last time, Chris thinks with a bit of embarrassment. Regardless of the originality of his line, this looks to have cheered up Charlotte.
"I'm glad!" Charlotte exclaims just a bit too loudly, or at least a bit louder than Chris expects.
"I hope we can do something like this again soon," Chris says, just as sincerely; this time the line is not taken from a romantic comedy, or at least none he had watched.
"Well we can, if you want," Charlotte replies eagerly. "Tonight."
"T-tonight?" Chris stutters, feeling nervous before she has even revealed her plans.
"Yup, my friend is having her birthday party. I'm sure she wouldn't mind if I brought you with me."
"Sh-sh-sure, I'd love to!"
"Great! It's at eight o'clock at her house, just a short walk from campus."
"Alright...s-so, where should w-we meet?" He can hardly control his stutter at this point.
"How about you pick me up at my room, 427, at quarter to eight?"
"S-s-sounds good to me."
"Alright, see you then! I just need to finish my grocery shopping now, since I wasn't able to finish it yesterday for_some reason_." She gives him a playful nudge.
"See you l-later then." Chris gives a nervous smile and departs back to campus. Out of panic and stress of the coming 'date', he tries to talk to Luke. Are you there? Nothing. I really need to talk to you. Still nothing. Please, I need your advice. Please...
Silence.
Chris is lying on his bed, again tossing his stress ball up and down. His gaze drifts to the clock again, which he has set to the correct time, 5:32. Just over two hours until he should pick her up.
Charlotte. He grasps his stress ball and squeezes it. There is a lot more at stake tonight, hereminds himself, I can't make a fool of myself, not with all her friends there. He squeezes the stress ball so hard that his hand starts to hurt, so he releases it.
Clunk. The ball hits something on the floor: the pills. He no longer needs these pills for his depression, as he is no longer unhappy; maybe all he needed is someone else in his life. He looks down at the comforting orange cylinder, then at the clock: 5:34. I have time, he tells himself. I have time.
The transition from reality into his drug trip is more painful this time; his head feels like it is tightening and contorting. He closes his eyes to brace against the pain. How long does it last, a minute, ten minutes, an hour, several hours? Time feels insignificant and lost amongst his senses.
He opens his eyes once the pain has subsided and finds Luke leaning against the wall across from him. Chris starts the conversation.
"Why didn't you-"
"Like I said before, we can do all the talking we want right here."
"Yes, but I have a date in-" Chris glances at the clock: fucking 6:11. It may actually be 6:11, but Chris doubts it. He grunts out of frustration.
"Don't be so nervous," Luke preaches, "you'll only make yourself panic."
"I know, but there's a lot of pressure on me to-"
There is a knock at the door.
Chris scrambles out of bed and peers through the peephole. Charlotte, or at least who he thinks is Charlotte in this inverted glow of his hallucinogenic state, is on the other side.
_Oh shit, the drugs! _ Chris curses under his breath. He panics, looking frantically at Luke, who just shrugs, seeming to be as stupefied as Chris.
Chris takes a moment to collect himself and opens the door. As he appears in Charlotte's view, her smile quickly transforms into a stunned, questioning expression.
"Are you okay?" she asks, concerned. "You don't look well."
"I'm fine." Chris lets her in, walking directly past Luke and seating her in the office style chair by his desk.
"Where were you?" her tone is elevated, and potentially aggressive.
"What do you mean?"
"I waited until eight. You never showed up."
"It's not even quarter past six yet!" Chris's own voice is escalating. He motions to his clock to prove his point. Charlotte glances at the clock and then back at Chris, staring at him incredulously; her entire body language reads 'what the hell are you talking about?' This puts Chris on edge.
"It's 8:06...are you sure you're alright?" she sounds a bit sympathetic now, but there is still anger in her voice.
"Yeah Chris, you don't look so good!" Luke mocks what Charlotte had said, smiling as he does so. Chris throws him a look that warns him to be quiet.
"Shut up." Chris says in a low voice to Luke, but Charlotte mistakes the comment as directed at her. She punches Chris hard on the arm.
"Ow! The fuck...?" Chris is taken aback. "I wasn't talking to you!"
"Who the hell else could you be talking to?" Charlotte was yelling now. She stands up from her chair. "There's nobody else here!"
Shit. This can only get worse.
"Yeah Chris, who are you talking to?" Luke mocks Charlotte again, now laughing hysterically, his pointed tail flicking back and forth excitedly.
"I said be quiet!" Chris shouts at Luke; it stops him from laughing, but he continues to stare at Chris with a devilish smile.
_Smack. _ Chris's head is spun around; a sharp sting prickles on his cheek. He glares at Charlotte with an acute hate; a loathing. Charlotte looks hurt and her eyes twinkle; she might be holding back tears.
"I'm not fucking talking to you!" Chris bellows, full of anger and adrenaline.
"You're delusional," Charlotte says as calmly as she can and heads for the door. "I'm leaving."
"I'm telling you, I'm fine!" Chris grabs Charlotte's arm, pulling her away from the door. Charlotte spins around and slaps Chris again, hard across the cheek.
Chris, built up with inexplicable rage and madness, grabs Charlotte by the throat and pins her on the ground. Her arms flail, reaching out of desperation to escape, to survive. Chris can see every emotion on her face: anger, suffering, pain, sadness, horror. Chris can see the life leaking out of her eyes, her breath slipping away. A few more seconds pass, and her flailing and gasping comes to an end; her body has gone limp. A single tear rolls down her cheek, falling on Chris's hand. All his anger is washed away, and his senses return. He cries. He heaves in tears at what he has done, burying his face into Charlotte's neck, her beautiful, soft neck. He sits up and wipes the tears from his face. Colour has returned, and the inverted glow has subsided, along with Charlotte's warm, enthusiastic glow of her own. Chris can't bear to look at Charlotte's eyes anymore, staring blankly off into the distance, never blinking.
"How entertaining." A deep, inhuman voice booms above Chris. The voice echoes in the small room. Chris staggers to his feet, finding Luke replaced with a creature very similar, but red: a deep, blood red and piercing yellow eyes.
"You're not Luke, are you?" Chris squeaks, his voice sounding small against the deep, overpowering speech of the creature.
"Yes, I am," the creature starts, "at least who you think is Luke. This is what I really look like, as opposed to whatever the hell I was in your inverted delusions." Luke gives a bone-chilling laugh that penetrates Chris's skull; it brings him to his knees, hovering over Charlotte. Inverted colours? Of course, the inverted colour of blue is...
"Red." The demon finishes.
"If you're not Luke, then who are you?" Chris asks this thing, his heart slamming in his throat; he has a hunch, but is hoping to God that he is wrong. "What is your name?"
"I have been called many names. It is rather what I represent that is more important."
Chris catches a blinking in the corner of his eye. The clock is blinking frantically: 6:11, 6:11, 6:11.
"That damn letter, the epistle, tried to ruin my fun," the demon announces proudly, motioning to the blinking clock. Chris has no idea what it means by this, what 6:11 has to do with anything that has just occurred.
"I'd explain further, but..." the devil brings his wrist to his face, checking his imaginary watch, or was it imaginary? "it looks like we've run out of time." The devil sneers at Chris, and thrusts out his palm to face him, his black claws protruding over the tips of his fingers. Chris instantly feels overwhelmed, and starts to drift in and out of consciousness. No, Chris tries to fight back, no...
"Don't worry," the demon says in a sarcastically comforting voice, "we will meet again eventually. I promise."
The last thing Chris hears is the demon's blood-curdling laugh as he falls into unconsciousness.